My Life as a Blundering Ballerina

by Bill Myers

  After going to the nurse’s office and receiving a blood transfusion, I returned to class only to discover that everybody was now baking. Cool. I could handle that. Just do everything my little sister Carrie doesn’t when she cooks. No problem.

  Well . . . except for the part where they’d just run out of baking powder.

  “What do I need baking powder for?” I asked.

  “It gives it a little extra kick.” Mrs. Permagrin smiled. “And it helps the cookies to rise.”

  I grinned. “I’ve got the perfect solution. I’ll be right back.”

  After a little searching, I found the solution over in the science class. It was a small canister of gunpowder. I knew it wouldn’t taste the same, but if baking powder gave the dough a “little extra kick,” then gunpowder ought to really help it out.

  I headed back to class feeling pretty smug and knowing that I was really going to impress the class.

  When I entered the room Mrs. Permagrin was still smiling as she shot a fire extinguisher at someone’s pan of burning cookies. “Nothing to worry about, dear.” She grinned as she spoke to the crying girl. “Some people actually like their cookies well done.”

  I headed to my counter, opened the canister, and dumped just a dash of the secret powder into my dough. It was black, which gave the dough an odd look, but I figured it was okay. Then I figured something else. If a little powder is good, then a lot ought to be better. I poured in more, mixed it up, and dropped the delectable little dough globs onto a greased pan. Ten minutes later I pulled them out of the oven. Incredibly, they looked and smelled exactly like . . . well, exactly like cookies. (And you thought something bad was going to happen, didn’t you? Come on, admit it.) But to my surprise (and yours), it didn’t.

  I scooped the cookies off the pan and set them in one long perfect row on the counter.

  I was so impressed with myself that I quickly made up another batch and threw them in the oven just as Mrs. Permagrin passed by.

  “Oh, Wallace.” She smiled her perpetual smile. “They’re so beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling more than a little proud.

  She leaned over them for a closer look. “Tell me, what is this black color from?”

  “Oh, that,” I hedged, while I carefully tried to hide the can of gunpowder behind me on the counter. I almost succeeded—except for the part where I bumped into the stove and accidentally turned on one of the gas burners.

  Even that wouldn’t have been so bad if the first cookie hadn’t been so close to the flame.

  K-BAMB!

  The thing exploded like a firecracker, right on the counter. Everyone, including Mrs. Permagrin, jumped back and screamed.

  Apparently, I’d put a little too much ‘kick’ into the cookie dough. Worse yet, that explosion was only the beginning. Because that cookie was touching the next cookie

  K-BAMB! K-BAMB!

  which was touching the next

  K-BAMB! K-BAMB! K-BAMB!

  By now everyone was screaming and racing for the door. For a moment even Mrs. Permagrin’s smile seemed to falter as she dashed out of the room.

  K-BAMB! K-BAMB! K-BAMB! K-BAMB!

  I was the last to leave. (I would have been the first if I hadn’t wasted all that time screaming in panic, running into other kids, and falling over chairs.) But, as I arrived at the door, I kept thinking I was forgetting something. It was then that I looked back to the counter.

  I wished I hadn’t.

  Because there, sitting at the very end of the row of cookies, was the canister of gunpowder.

  K-BAMB! K-BAMB! K-BAMB!

  K-BAMB! K-BAMB!

  The cookies were acting like a long fuse, working their way down to the gunpowder. I started to pray, begging God not to send me to where all bad cooks go (the last thing I wanted to do was eat my sister’s cooking for eternity), when finally, it happened

  K A - B O O M ! ! ! !

  I woke up on a stretcher beside the ambulance. A paramedic was hovering over me, and about a hundred TV cameras were shoved in my face. All the big-time reporters were there . . . Dan Rathernot, Tom Brokenoff, even that old-timer, Walter Crankcase. It seems everyone was pushing a microphone into my face and asking questions.

  “Do you still think girls have it easier than boys?”

  “Are you still continuing the competition?”

  “Did you really try to blow up the school because you were afraid of losing?”

  It was then I noticed the smoldering remains of the Home Economics classroom behind them and the half-dozen or so fire trucks. I was about to explain that it was just another McDoogle mishap and nothing to worry about, when Barbara Warters cried, “There she is! There’s Wall Street!”

  Suddenly the whole herd turned and chased after Wall Street. I started to get up, but the paramedic pushed me back down.

  “Lay back and rest,” he ordered.

  “But—”

  “Everything’s okay, you just need to take it easy.” I nodded and lay back down. That’s when I spotted Ol’ Betsy by my side. With nothing else to do (except wonder how much worse things could get) I decided to check up on Bumble Boy. Compared to the insanity surrounding me, a nice, amped-out, action-packed, nail-biting story should help me relax.

  When we last left Bumble Boy, he was dashing out of the hive to battle the sickeningly sinister and shamefully showy Shakespeare Guy. Already this artistically challenged archenemy is making people sound like Macbeth, Hamlet, or any of those other weird guyscarrying around skulls and talking funny.

  But it isn’t just their words. As Bumble Boy buzzes toward New York City he sees an army troop trading in its rifles for fencing swords, gang members replacing their baggy pants with black tights, and construction workers chucking their hard hats for feathered caps.

  It’s terrible. No, it’s worse than terrible. It’s like having your TV permanently stuck on an educational channel!

  But that’s only the beginning. Suddenly, there’s a high-pitched scream overhead. It sounds like a large, flying bat. Our superhero lifts his superhero head and with his keen superhero vision detects that——gasp of gasps...it’s a large flying bat. (Hey, he didn’t graduate from Superhero U without learning something.)

  Unfortunately the bat is now diving directly for him. Now, Bumble Boy likes to be the center of attention as much as the next guy. In fact, he was even hoping to sign an autograph for the creature and maybe pose for a photo with him. But the way the thing is diving toward him and opening its mouth, he realizes the bat isn’t interested in a free autograph...he wants a free lunch!

  I know, I know. One of you bright types is asking if bats really eat bumble bees with stingers. (Probably the same kid who had the exoskeleton question earlier.) How should I know? Maybe they eat everything but the stinger and save that for last, like a toothpick or something. Who knows? Certainly not Bumble Boy. And since he doesn’t have time to check it out on the Internet, and since he’s allergic to being eaten by bats (he breaks out in a bad case of death every time it happens), Bumble Boy does what any superhero in his right mind with wings would do. He flies for his life!

  He drops down and begins buzzing through trees, swooping in and out of the branches.

  It does no good. Bat boy is right behind him.

  He drops lower, darting through the flowers, this way and that——that way andthis. But the creature stays on his tail as close as those bad guys in the Star Wars movies (but without all the cool sound effects).

  Desperately, our hero looks for a place to hide. Somewhere nice and dark, since he figures bats can’t see in the dark. (Hey, just because he has a superbody doesn’t mean he has a superbrain.)

  He spots a nearby cave, darts inside, and breathes a sigh of relief. There’s no way the bat will get to Bumble Boy now. Not when he has to fight over him with all the other 50,000 bats.

  ALL THE OTHER 50,000 BATS!

  That’s right. As we’ve previously established, ol’ Bumble Brain will not be winn
ing any genius contests. Apparently, he chose a giant cave full of bats to hide in. This is no problem if you like flying around in the dark and happen to enjoy eating insects. But it’s a big problem if you can’t see in the dark and happen to be an insect.

  Suddenly, Bumble Boy is the life of the party. Literally.

  Everyone wants a piece of him. In fact, everyone is going batty over him. (Come on, you knew I’d work that one in.) Of course he tries some lame lie, like saying he thought it was a costume party and he came disguised as a bumble bee. But nobody swallows it.

  However, somebody does swallow him.

  One minute he’s in pitch blackness surrounded by thousands of wings, the next minute he’s in pitch blackness surrounded by some very large bat tonsils.

  But realizing he cannot die this early in the story, our hero decides to do a little poking around. Literally. He begins his world famous dentist routine and, using his stinger, jabs the creature deep in its gums. It lets out a loud, angry cry

  SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK!

  As the bat opens its mouth, Bumble Boy sees an escape route and makes a “beeline” (come on, you knew that was coming, too) out of the cave.

  Unfortunately

  HONK...HONK...

  Oh no, he’s flying too close to the freeway. A giant tanker truck is bar-reling down on him. Any moment he’s going to wind up being bug splat on some grill. Then——just as he wonders what the last thing to go through his mind will be (and hoping it’s not going to be his stinger)——the truck catches his left set of legs and sends him tumbling out of control, antenna over heels, until

  Whop Whop Whop Whop Whop Whop . . .

  I looked up from my computer and saw a giant helicopter dropping over our heads and landing in the parking lot.

  People were rushing around every which way . . . including Ms. Finglestooper.

  “What’s going on?” I shouted.

  “It’s the Governor,” she cried in excitement.

  “The Governor?”

  “That’s right. She’s running for president, and she thinks your bet with Wall Street is the perfect campaign issue.”

  “The what?”

  “She’s going to use you as an example of how all men are male chauvinistic slobs and how they are actually inferior to women.”

  “She’s what?”

  “Isn’t this exciting?” she shouted. “You’ll stand for what’s wrong with all the men in our country. You’ll debate her on national TV. You’ll get to be publicly humiliated by one of the most powerful women in the world!”

  I glanced down at my superhero story and let out a long sigh. Needless to say, I was pretty envious of Bumble Boy. Being a permanent hood ornament on a tanker truck sounded a whole lot better than my current fate.

  “Come on, Wallace,” Ms. Finglestooper cried, motioning for me to follow. “Come on, the whole world is waiting.”

  Chapter 5

  Political Correctness

  “Where is he?” Governor Makeasplash cried, as she stepped off the helicopter. She began scanning the crowd. “Where is that woman-hating, sexist, Wally McBigot?”

  The good news was there were a zillion and one people in the crowd. I figured I could just sort of blend in. The bad news was all zillion (except this one) took three steps back, leaving me out in the open. Now she could clearly see me. I was all alone like a deer trapped in the glaring headlights of this woman’s political ambition. (Wow, what a phrase; I should be a writer or something.)

  She stormed from the helicopter and headed directly for me. I was history, dead meat, just so much plaque on the dental floss of life. (Wow, there’s another one.) But before I could collect my Pulitzer Prize for such incredible writing, she had arrived. Talk about mad. She looked like she wanted to bite off my head. But when she saw the camera lights come on she suddenly turned all smiles.

  “Well, hello there, Wallace,” she said, extending her hand.

  For a second I hesitated. But I realized I had an extra arm—in case she thought of ripping the first off and beating me over the head with it. So, I agreed to shake her hand.

  A thousand flashbulbs went off.

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” she said, still grinning. “What a privilege to speak with a young man unafraid to state his opinions.” Her act was so convincing that I forgot about my Pulitzer Prize and wondered when she’d be picking up her Oscar. “

  You’re—you’re not mad?” I stuttered.

  “Mad,” she forced a chuckle, then turned so all the cameras could see her. More flashes. “Mad?” she repeated, in case anybody missed a flash. “Of course I’m not mad.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Good, because I really didn’t—”

  She interrupted. “No, my good boy, I’m not mad at all.”

  “Good, ’cause I think there was a mix-up, because I never really—”

  “After all, it’s not your fault that your thinking is the product of our country’s bias and sexist mentality.”

  “Well, actually, I think—”

  “It’s not your fault that you think men are superior to women.”

  “Actually, I believe—”

  “It’s not your fault that you and your generation are merely the natural extension of the current administration’s outdated and antiquated policies painfully manifesting the . . .”

  I’m not sure when she quit talking English, but suddenly she was making no sense. In fact, with all the cameras and reporters surrounding her, I got the feeling she wasn’t even talking to me.

  “. . . a clear and persuasive illustration of the administration’s lack of sensitivity regarding gender. . . .”

  See what I mean?

  And then it dawned on me. If she wasn’t talking to me, maybe she wouldn’t miss me. And if she wouldn’t miss me, maybe I could just sort of slip away—unnoticed. It was worth a try. As she continued talking her political pig Latin, I slowly eased myself over to the edge of the crowd.

  So far so good.

  “. . . were I to begin my tenure in the executive office I guarantee you I would immediately institute legislation assuring the rights of . . .”

  I slowly slipped into the crowd.

  So far, so good.

  I kept looking at the Governor, pretending I was listening, while slowly walking backwards . . . ten, fifteen, twenty feet. I tell you it was a work of art, the way I was making my getaway. Like poetry in mot—

  “Ow! Watch it!”

  I spun around and saw . . .

  “Wall Street!” I cried in a whisper.

  “Wally!” she whispered back, equally surprised. She looked very tired and beat up. In fact, she looked almost as bad as I felt.

  “What happened to you?” I asked.

  “The usual guy stuff,” she shrugged. “Wedgies by the bullies in the hallway, swirlies by the jocks in the lavatories. And automotive shop. How was I supposed to know you couldn’t arc weld a gas can when it’s full of gas? I almost blew up the place.”

  I threw a look over to the smoking remains of the Home Economics building. It seemed like we were having equally bad days.

  “I tell you, Wally,” she shook her head. “You’re right, I’m just not cut out for all this guy stuff.”

  “I’m not as right as you are,” I said. “Doing all this girl stuff is killing me.”

  She let out a long, low sigh. “And now I’ve got to go to your football practice.”

  “And I have to go to your ballet rehearsal.”

  “Maybe . . .” her eyes started to brighten in hope. “Maybe we should just call the whole thing off.”

  Of course, what a brilliant solution! I began to nod. “Yes! We can admit that we were both wrong and that—”

  “There they are!” someone shouted.

  I spun around.

  The whole crowd of reporters turned their attention and cameras back on us. They swarmed around us like sharks circling raw meat.

  “So tell us, Wall Street,” they said as they shoved mic
s in front of her face. “How are you handling this competition? Are you about ready to give up?”

  “I don’t know,” she sighed. “Maybe. Wally and I were just talking, and maybe it’s time—”

  “Are you admitting defeat?” one of the reporters shouted. “Are you agreeing that boys are superior to girls?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she corrected. “I don’t believe boys are superior, but—”

  “Did you hear that, Wally?” another reporter shouted. “She doesn’t believe you guys are superior? Are you going to let her get away with that?”

  “Well, no. I mean yes,” I stammered. “I mean of course not.”

  “So you believe that girls are inferior?”

  “In some things. . . . Yeah, I suppose, but in other things—”

  “Did you hear that?” they spun back to Wall Street. “Are you going to take that? Are you really going to give up and admit boys are better?”

  “No way,” Wall Street said. “Boys are not better.”

  “You hear that, Wally?” another reporter cried. “She says girls are the superior ones.”

  I don’t know what happened. Suddenly our words were getting all twisted around. I couldn’t figure out why Wall Street was saying all those things when just minutes ago she and I had agreed.

  “So are you licked, Wally?” another reporter shouted.

  I could feel myself getting angry.

  “Are you defeated? Is that what you’re saying?” they shouted. “Do you agree with her that girls are the superior ones!”

  I finally exploded. “Only in her dreams!” I shouted.

  “Oh yeah?” Wall Street said, stepping toward me. I could tell she was as mad as I was.

  “Yeah.” I said, refusing to back down. “It’s way harder being a guy than a girl.”

  “Is not.”

  “Is too.”

  “Is not.”

  “Is too.”

  She got into my face. “Is not.”

  I got into hers. “Is too.”

  Somewhere in the back of my mind this was all sounding very familiar. Too familiar. But before I could figure it out, our beloved Governor pushed her way through the crowd. After all, she’d been out of the spotlight for almost a minute, and it was obvious she was going through some sort of attention withdrawal.